


The Lips Of The Fool

by Thysanotus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-10
Updated: 2005-11-10
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thysanotus/pseuds/Thysanotus
Summary: NC-17, without a doubt. This is the most graphic thing I've written yet.





	The Lips Of The Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

Warnings: Contains mention of torture, character death, cannibalism, snuff, and implied necrophilia. Whoa.  
A/N: The eighth of 22 ficlets written for my birthday. This one is for [info]darkasphodel. I wrote a teeny tiny vignette (about 30 words or so) for Lils a while ago, and so she asked me to expand it for these series of ficlets. The only trouble was, I hadn't saved the vignette in question, but I knew it involved tree!sex. So. I wrote the opening as best as I could remember - and then I'm not sure what happened. I'll uhm, be hiding under Shay's rock if anyone wants me. Thanks to [info]xylodemon for giving this a quick once over.

 

His hands are tied roughly behind his back, encircling the tree. He can feel the bark prickling against his skin, splinters resting against the nape of his neck. A pungent smell, reminiscent of colds and tight breathing, waking gasping for air, threads through his hair. The blindfold over his eyes blocks colours and shapes from view, but he can make out dim shadows moving around him.

He fists his hands, awkwardly, feeling the bitten nails dig into his palms. He can’t stand waiting, not knowing what will happen. His breathing filters through his ears, shallow ragged gasps, constricted by the rope around his chest.

Refusing to give into panic, knowing that this can’t be the end – it’s not the end, it’s not what he was prepared for, it’s not what he’s trained for – it can’t come down to this. Surely Dumbledore would never have allowed it to come down to this.

He closes his eyes behind the blindfold, quelling his nausea, battling to clear his mind. Remember, Potter, if they catch you, you must escape. Use any means necessary. Although - Harry winces at the recollection of Snape’s sneer, his eyes tracking over Harry’s slight form. He’d implied Harry should Avada Kedavra himself rather than be taken alive.

Of course, when it had come down to it, when their position had been overrun, and MacNair, beard dripping with blood and Avery and Nott and countless others he didn’t recognise had herded everyone together, snapping wands over their knees, slapping each other on the back, he hadn’t had the courage. The moral fibre, Snape would have said, sneeringly.

He’d implored Ron to do it. He can still see Ron’s wand extended at his forehead if he clenches his eyes shut, shaking in horror, the polished surface refracting the light, and he’d squeezed his eyes closed and prayed for it to be quick, and fast, and that he wouldn’t scream. But Ron hadn’t been quick enough, or hadn’t had the force of will to cast the spell with. He’s not sure which, not sure which he’d rather it was.

Hermione wouldn’t have failed, would have been brusque, but tender. And it all would have been over in a heartbeat, and his corpse would lie on the ground, and yes, it may all have been futile, but surely this is every bit as futile, this pitiful wrestling with charmed ropes in the mud and filth.

He knows without touching that his scar has split open again, a writhing red serpent across his forehead, weeping tracks of red. The blood drips down across his chapped lips, the coppery scent cutting through the oddly familiar pungent smell. It’s salty, and he takes what sustenance he can from it, knowing he won’t be fed or watered again.

They’ve got what they can from him, left him bruised and broken, tied to the tree. Dirt marks his legs, hiding the burns and welts, the raw oozing cuts. He’s numbed to the open gouges across his back, ignoring the press of bark, the scrabbling crawl of insects through his torn flesh.  
The faint dragging sound of footsteps sends him cowering as far away as the bonds will allow him, experience having taught him the best he can hope for is a relatively short burst of Crucio. If he’s lucky, and he doesn’t think he is, anymore, it won’t be Bellatrix.

The figure silhouetted through his blindfold is too short to be Bellatrix, but Harry is careful not to react. They have tricked him with Polyjuice before. He thinks he might be alright this time, as long as it’s not Ron or Hermione standing in front of him. As long as they don’t force him to suck Dumbledore’s cock, to present his arse to be filled by someone wearing Sirius’ face, his hands and mouth filled by Remus, or Mr Weasley. The worst times are when they use Ron, animating his body until he moves under Imperio towards Harry, like a puppet with its strings cut.

He turns towards Harry, empty grin on his face, fingers stretching and probing his own arse, twisting a nipple so hard between his other fingers that droplets of blood slick the pebbled surface and he loses his grip. He doesn’t seem to notice.

His hand moves down to Harry’s cock, teasing and stroking with light touches until it is all too much, and the top of Harry’s head comes off as he comes over Ron, spattering him lightly. Ron flicks his tongue out, thoughtfully, to catch a drip of semen from the side of his mouth, where it freckles his skin, and that moment. Harry can replay that moment too, the slight movement of the pink tongue smoothing peach fuzz cheek, the blank eyes.

Harry thinks this is when he knew it was over. If he’d been a real threat, they would have killed him straight away, they wouldn’t have wasted time involving him in public orgies and degradation.

A shift in the weight of the figure near his head alerts him, and he presses back against the tree, trying to control his sobbing breaths. Fingers descend into his hair, soothing, stroking his scalp, carefully avoiding the crusted blood and other dried substances. He holds himself stiffly, not wanting to relax into the caress, waiting for the hands to wrench cruelly at his hair.

Cold metal against his wrists doesn’t make him flinch, anymore. He wishes he had the courage to run his wrists along it, a pointless dream he knows. They will never let him die from something so crass as slit wrists. The sudden release of pressure from around his wrists baffles him, and he stays in place for a few seconds before slipping sideways. The person uses his hair to haul him upright, cursing quietly as a louse runs across the skin of their hand.

He is yanked to his feet, but remains silent, well-trained. The path is uneven underfoot, treacherous as he falls awkwardly, dragged up by his elbow, arm twisted behind his back. This pain would have once made him bite his lip, concentrating on the sharper pain, the metallic taste and odd sweetness confirming his presence. Now this dull-edged pain is enough, grating on the fringes of his consciousness.

He knows when they reach the clearing that holds the arena, can sense the overt interest and hungry eyes that follow his steps across the sand, slipping underfoot. He wonders dully whose turn it will be today. Will his former housemates have him? Will they give him to the Slytherins? Again, he hopes it’s not Bellatrix. She has a disturbing habit of carving strips of flesh from his shoulders and thighs, the blood streaking down her chin as she watches his eyes. He can’t look away, transfixed as she tears at the strips of his flesh, teeth pointed, eyes wild. He wonders what it tastes like, this piece of meat, wonders if this makes him insane.

His hands are chained to the post, his legs spread-eagled and chained apart. He knows, from the position and the chains, that today it will be Malfoy, and he swallows hard. Malfoy is the only one still interested in provoking an interest in him, spending as long as possible slicking him up, sliding a finger slowly into his arse – as though it made a difference and MacNair hadn’t just fucked him dry.

The touch of the breeze against his back suggests Malfoy has moved behind him, loosening his blindfold until it drops to the ground. The colours are always too bright at first, pressing their intensity against his eyes until he closes them, letting the tears seep out and run down his cheeks.

Malfoy smooths his hands over Harry’s back, ignoring the ragged flesh, counting the knobs of his spine. He presses kisses to the nape of Harry’s neck, and Harry shudders. He prefers the uncaring brutality of Avery or Crabbe to the assumed tenderness of Draco Malfoy.

At the touch of Draco’s tongue to his arse, Harry rolls his eyes and trembles like a frightened animal. Draco strokes a hand up Harry’s hip, moving along what used to be a smooth ridge of muscle, but is now only bone.

His tongue dips and flutters, probing the way, while his hands fist around Harry’s cock, encouraging it to hardness until it’s pushing against Harry’s belly, weeping with pre-cum over Draco’s fingers. Rocking back on his haunches, he licks his fingers.

Harry whimpers. Somehow, somewhere, he knows that this is his final day.

Behind him, Draco grunts as he eases into Harry, sliding slowly back and forth, establishing a predictable rhythm. Harry wonders momentarily if Draco walks like he fucks, with a steady 4/4 beat.

Draco wraps his hand again around Harry’s cock, and Harry closes his eyes again, not to block out the huddled crowd, but so that he doesn’t have to see long elegant fingers gliding up his shaft, thumb flicking over the head.

The fuck seems to go on interminably today, Draco like a metronome – or a pile-driver, Harry thinks, his head hitting the pole again. Draco’s hands spider up his back, clutching first at his shoulders, then slipping around his neck.

His vision blurs, eyes rolling up and he struggles for air. He can hear the bones in his neck cracking as they are forced closer and closer together, his trachea obstructed, lungs rattling as he pulls and heaves for breath. The blood pulses in his lips, spots swimming in his eyes.

As the world goes dark around him, Harry thinks that at least it’s not such a bad way to go, dying with Draco’s cock in his arse and hands on his throat.


End file.
